


Partners in Crime

by Seuris, Songspinner



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kenshi, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Assassination Plot(s), Claude von Riegan is a Little Shit, Con Artists, Deception, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Apocalypse, Slavery, the slavery is only mentioned but be aware they talk about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26680588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seuris/pseuds/Seuris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songspinner/pseuds/Songspinner
Summary: Claude, a talented con artist and occasional assassin in a post-apocalyptic wasteland of a world, takes a job as an exotic dancer and courtesan to warm the bed of the warlord Dimitri Blaiddyd for a night. He intends to take Blaiddyd out before dawn and loot whatever riches he can get his hands on, but an unexpected fascination turns the one-night stand into a long con. But the longer Claude sticks around, the harder it is to keep all the many secrets he hides...
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67
Collections: Dimiclaude Wild Weekend





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is lowkey a Kenshi AU, but knowledge of the game isn't necessary; just think harsh, post-apocalyptic, dog-eat-dog world with a few good people among the riffraff and cannibal robots.
> 
> This first chapter was posted for day 1 of [Dimiclaude's Wild Weekend 2020](https://twitter.com/nsfwdmclweekend), prompts: foreplay, roleplay.

“Hey there. I heard Lord Blaiddyd was looking to hire a dancer for the night?”

“You heard right.” Sylvain smiles and gives the newcomer a very obvious once-over. Lean and wiry in his light jacket, loose, thin tunic, and slim-fitting pants, dark curly hair, striking green eyes framed by long lashes, and lips curled into a perpetual impish smirk. Could definitely do a lot worse, Sylvain thinks--this guy is  _ easily _ at the top of the list of men who’ve expressed interest, so far. “Care to join me inside and show me what you’ve got to offer?”

Sylvain thinks he can see the man hesitate and glance around in a manner he can’t help but liken to prey animals. He can’t blame the guy too much; if Sylvain weren’t obviously dressed in the local warlord’s colors and flying his banner, he could be anyone making this claim. After a moment, the guy relaxes some and nods, still smiling. “Sure thing. Lead the way.”

So Sylvain does, making his way inside the tent nearby with the dancer trailing along behind him. Once they’re inside, he offers his hand. “I’m Sylvain, by the way. You?”

“My name’s Claude,” the dancer says, shaking the hand with a certain warm professionalism.

“Welcome, Claude.” Sylvain takes a seat in the one small chair here and gestures. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Claude nods and begins to--to strip? It’s brisk and efficient, not sensual in any way, and the reason for it becomes obvious in a moment: beneath his clothes, Claude’s wearing a set of daiphanous silks in pale yellows and rich greens, attached to his body via a collection of jingling brass bangles. A gold earring sparkles in one ear, and he fishes in his jacket pocket to pull out a matching veil that he clips into his hair to hang by delicate golden chains, leaving only his eyes unconcealed. Finally, he kicks off his boots and socks to stand barefoot in the center of the tent, shifting from the practical movements of a performer in a dressing room to the poise of a seductive minx in seconds flat.

_ He must be cold, _ Sylvain thinks, but then Claude’s moving and it becomes difficult to focus on anything else. There’s no music, so the dancer makes his own, humming a melody to accompany himself as he moves through a series of steps and turns designed to draw Sylvain’s eye to all of his best features (which just so happen to be the ones most scantily clad, too). The man knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure. He never comes close enough to touch Sylvain, but he does come close enough to tease with a coy wink. It would all have been enough to secure him the job even before he finishes with a move that shows off both an impressive flexibility and a hidden strength in those lean muscles.

Claude follows it with a humble bow. “Well?” he asks, in a tone that implies he knows just how good he is. “How was that?”

“You’re hired,” Sylvain says immediately, silently planning a cold bath as soon as he gets back to base.

* * *

“You did  _ what? _ ” Dimitri stares at Sylvain almost uncomprehendingly.

“Calm down, it’s just for a night! Admit it, you’ve been tense and sleepless for weeks.”

“I--” The warlord shakes his head. “Maybe so, but that hardly warrants going out and hiring a...a…”

“An exotic dancer?” Sylvain’s lips quirk up. “A companion? A courtesan? A--”   
  
"Yes, thank you, Sylvain.” Dimitri rubs his temples with two fingers.

“Look,” the captain of his guard says in that irritatingly reasonable tone of his. “Just spend one night with this guy, have a little fun, relax, and then you’ll wake up feeling refreshed and that’ll be that. It’s no big deal. Besides, wait til you  _ see _ him--”

Dimitri sighs. “Very well, if it will convince you to stop your incessant meddling. Bring him to my chambers after dinner.”

He almost regrets it when Sylvain’s face breaks into a smug, knowing grin. “You got it, Your Grace.”

Dinner itself is uneventful, other than Dimitri’s nervous fiddling with his utensils in between every bite and enduring the periodic winks Sylvain shoots him from across the table. Dimitri ends up gulping down his food and fleeing the mess hall early just to give himself a chance to spruce up and unwind. It isn’t as though he’s never been intimate with anyone before, nor even that this would be his first time with a courtesan, but he certainly has never had someone  _ else _ hire such a person to...to provide their services to him because they think he  _ needs _ them. And no doubt Sylvain told this man as much, too.

Which is why he’s busy fussing over the placement of the two cups of moonshine he’s poured in self-conscious anticipation when the knock on his door comes. “Yes, enter,” he says, his gaze snapping up to the door.

He thinks he hears Sylvain mutter something incomprehensible as the door opens to admit a lithe, confident man dressed in nothing but flowing silks and sparkling jewelry, face partially obscured by a translucent veil. By the time he’s fully entered the room, Sylvain’s already gone, which leaves Dimitri with no alternative but to gaze--oh, who is he kidding,  _ stare _ \--at the dancer as he gently closes the door behind him and pads barefoot toward the utilitarian rug by the foot of the bed. “Good evening, Your Grace,” the man says in a mellifluous baritone, bowing deeply with an elegance that’s practically unheard of outside the Holy Nation. The thought makes Dimitri a tad uneasy, but it’s difficult to stay that way when the man straightens back up again to look at him with a certain twinkling mischief gleaming in eyes of bright jade. “I trust you’re well?”

“I...am well, yes.” Dimitri tears his eyes away from the way the soft silk clings to the dancer’s legs to pull out one of the chairs at the little table where he’s prepared the drinks. “Please, have a seat.”

“A seat?” It’s hard to tell with the veil, but Dimitri thinks the man’s smiling. “For little old me? I didn’t realize I was being hired for a  _ date _ .” He saunters over, hips swaying, to sit. Dimitri pushes his chair back in before taking his own seat on the other side. “How gracious.”

Dimitri grunts. “Mere courtesy, that is all. What is your name?” He picks up his cup and takes a long sip. For moonshine, it’s quite smooth--one of the many benefits of having Dedue around, of course. Even when supplies are low and the pickings are slim, he manages to make mealtimes pleasant.

A brief flash of mild astonishment crosses the dancer’s face. “I’m Claude. And you might be surprised to hear that ‘courtesy’ isn’t something I often receive, so thank you.”

Dimitri’s brow furrows to hear it, even as he notices that Claude hasn’t actually taken a drink, though he’s holding the cup in his hand idly. “Surprised, no. Just disturbed.” Is he taking precautions against poison? Why would anyone hire a courtesan just to poison them?

“Well, isn’t that gentlemanly of you?” Claude leans an elbow on the table and rests his chin in one hand. It’s so utterly charming somehow that Dimitri can almost forget what exactly Sylvain’s paying this man to do. Almost.

“Hardly.” Dimitri takes another gulp of liquor and sets down the empty cup. “Not a fan of alcohol?” He gestures slightly with his chin toward Claude’s own cup.

“Ah, it’s just that I’m such a lightweight,” the dancer admits, putting the drink down in what seems like relief. “I didn’t want to be rude, but I’m afraid if I indulged, my performance would be less than stellar, ha.” He must notice when Dimitri’s face reddens abruptly, because he laughs, delighted. “I mean my dancing, of course. What a filthy mind you must have, milord!” Dimitri’s mouth gapes open, halfway to forming words that come out in nothing but a sputter. “But don’t worry,” Claude goes on. “I have no doubt that  _ your _ performance will be stunning no matter what.” He winks, and Dimitri thinks he might just die right there on the spot.

Fortunately, Claude has mercy on him, putting down his untouched cup and standing. “Ah, but I’m not getting paid to talk, am I, Your Grace?”

“Just Dimitri,” the warlord manages, clearing his throat. “Please.”

“Very well, then, Dimitri.” Claude seems pleased, letting the name roll lyrically from his lips as he takes up a pose in the center of the room, weight shifted onto one foot, hip cocked, wrists crossed above his head and gaze dropped almost demurely. But there’s nothing demure about the way he moves when the dance begins.

From the instant Claude draws the first slow circle with his hips, Dimitri is mesmerized. He soon realizes that not all the bangles and jewels the dancer wears are for show--some of them are strategically placed to jingle rhythmically when he moves, and some of them are  _ bells _ , and this is how he makes the percussive music that accompanies his dance. Dimitri’s eye doesn’t know where to settle; every time Claude’s hips sway, the silks draped around his waist part just so, revealing tantalizing flashes of skin that disappear a moment later. When he steps or turns, Dimitri catches glimpses of muscular thighs and calves, and he habitually forces his thoughts to turn away from wondering whether the dancer’s wearing anything underneath them.

And oh, Dimitri’s never seen anything like this before: the smooth undulations of Claude’s arms and barely-clad upper body, the impossible poses he holds with such grace as his hips roll in the air, the sheer  _ athleticism _ in the way he spins (and never gets dizzy--how, Dimitri wonders?). Slim fingers seem to pull Dimitri’s gaze along as they twist and glide through the air, drawing his attention to bare shoulders and firm buttocks, wisps of silk and dangling gold chain adorning toned biceps, the fluttering veil that only serves to get Dimitri wanting to yank it off so he can see the man’s cheeks and lips and jaw--surely, they must be as exquisitely beautiful as the rest of him?

Some part of Dimitri’s mind berates him for failing to avert his eyes from the most provocative and, frankly,  _ erotic _ thing he’s ever witnessed. Not that Claude is in any way crude--on the contrary, it almost seems to Dimitri that it’s his own steadily waking desire making the dance appear more sensual than it is, although objectively he knows that to be ridiculous. Claude is completely shameless in the voluptuous way he moves, the sly come-hither look in his brilliant green eyes--even the artful way his tousled curls fall about his face when he tosses his head lures Dimitri’s eye to him like a moth to flame. But of course--this is what Sylvain hired him for, after all, and there’s no reason not to enjoy every moment of it.

Still, to Dimitri’s mind it feels somewhat disrespectful to stare at the man’s body like this, invited or not. They’re  _ strangers _ , he thinks, face hot with the thrill of it all; there’s no way Claude  _ wants _ to be ogled like...well, like precisely what he is, Dimitri supposes. Hm.

Despite his rapt attention, Dimitri doesn’t notice how close the dancer has gotten to him until an outstretched hand brushes his own as he grips the arm of his chair tightly. A soft gasp leaves him involuntarily at the sudden contact, which treats him to Claude’s light, musical laugh. The dancer slowly, rhythmically sinks into a crouch just in front of the chair. He sways in place, arresting the warlord’s gaze with his own like a snake charmer.

“Dimitri,” he breathes, and from here Dimitri can see the faint sheen of sweat covering Claude’s skin, the kohl around his eyes, the pigments painting his eyelids and lips, the way his chest rises and falls, the way his face flushes with exertion. “May I touch you?”

“Goddess, yes,” Dimitri mutters without thinking, and nearly chokes when he realizes what he’s said...but he doesn’t take it back.

He thinks Claude might be smirking as he sways back to his feet before twirling behind the chair in a flurry of silk and sliding his hands down Dimitri’s chest from behind. Dimitri’s hands tremble on the chair’s arms when he feels warm breath in his ear, followed by the words, “Would you like to touch me?”

Dimitri swallows. “Claude…”

“Yes or no,” the dancer whispers, hands drifting further down over his abdomen. “This is what I’m here for, Dimitri, don’t be shy.”

“Yes.” It comes out gruff and breathy, and he means it.

“Good,” Claude purrs. He moves languidly to kneel in Dimitri’s lap, straddling him and gently prying his fingers from the chair. Even now, the warlord hesitates, palms hovering inches above the mostly bare skin of his chest. “What’s wrong, milord?”

Dimitri isn’t certain he knows, exactly, but a few seconds of thought have him saying, “Take off your veil. I want to see your face.”

Claude tilts his head, catlike, and then dutifully reaches behind his head to unclasp the veil. He places it carefully on the table. “Better?”

Yes...there he is. Dimitri’s hand finally finds him, cradling his cheek. “Ah,” he says quietly, feeling much more settled, somehow. “You are as beautiful as I had imagined.” And it’s true. The lines of Claude’s face are strong, even a little sharp, but slim and softened by the curls that frame it and a thin fringe of hair that runs along his jawline. His lips look so supple that Dimitri can’t help running his thumb along the bottom one to feel it for himself, and they smile under his touch. A gentle amusement shines in Claude’s eyes, but he says nothing, letting the warlord do as he pleases. “...forgive me,” Dimitri murmurs, though instead of taking his hand away, he moves it to take Claude’s chin and gently tip it upward. “May I kiss you?”

“You may do anything you like, short of hurting me,” the dancer replies.

So Dimitri does. He leans forward to press his lips to Claude’s, teasing them apart with his tongue and shivering ever so slightly at the soft, wet warmth within. Claude complies readily, and Dimitri imagines that if he could taste him, he would taste sweet. This close, the dancer smells of lavender and spices, and his hair is--oh, it’s so soft when Dimitri moves his hand back to carefully slip his fingers through the thick curls. His other palm comes down to rest at the small of Claude’s back, where no silks cover the smooth flesh, and his hips come up to rub the swiftly stiffening length straining at his pants against the dancer’s thigh as he pulls the man closer. He growls, low and sonorous, into Claude’s mouth. He’s rapidly losing focus, and the way Claude’s sliding his hands up under Dimitri’s shirt isn’t helping.

When Dimitri eventually pulls back from the kiss, it’s only to lift Claude into his arms and carry him over to the bed, where he drops the man onto the mattress on his back without fanfare and climbs up himself to kneel with one knee on either side of his thighs. He grasps the hem of his own shirt to lift it over his head, but Claude’s insistent hands cover his and still them. “Let me,” he says.

Dimitri almost protests, but looking down at this dancer in his bed, so eager and enchanting with such knowing eyes, he finds it difficult to refuse. He nods. Claude sits up to pull his shirt off and lays it beside them, before running his hands over Dimitri’s densely muscled abdomen with an appreciative hum and then pressing his lips to the warlord’s chest. He kisses his way up to one nipple and takes it into his mouth to suckle gently; Dimitri groans and arches into it, hands itching to tear the silks from Claude’s body and touch him everywhere...but as strong as the warlord is, he doesn’t trust himself not to hurt the man if he were to give in to his urges that far.

Claude leans back on his hands and lifts his eyes to ask, “What else can I do for you, milord?”

“I just want to feel you,” Dimitri says, placing one hand on Claude’s chest and gently pushing him back down to lie flat.

Claude arches an eyebrow with a smirk and reaches out to dig the heel of his hand into the bulge in Dimitri’s pants, eliciting a gasp and a moan as the warlord nearly doubles over with the sudden rush. “Are you  _ sure _ that’s all you want?”

“Ah...p-perhaps not.” Dimitri’s cheeks tinge with pink. “I didn’t wish to push you…”

“Dimitri…” From the way Claude’s looking at him, he’s trying not to laugh. “I hate to tell you, but I was literally hired to turn you on and be a great lay. If that’s not what you want, just tell me--but if you’re holding back for  _ my _ sake, don’t.”

“...right. Yes, of course.” Dimitri’s ears burn, now, and he silently curses Sylvain for managing to choose the one courtesan on the continent so alluring and gorgeous and sweet that Dimitri keeps forgetting he is one.

“Why don’t you lie back and let me take the reins for a while?” Claude suggests brightly.

“Please.” The warlord gratefully switches places with him.

“There we go,” Claude murmurs, dragging both hands up his bare, scarred arms and down his chest. “Just relax, Your Grace. I’ll take good care of you, promise.”

Dimitri finds that, in fact, relaxing isn’t as hard as he expected it to be. Claude is attentive and thorough. He takes his time but doesn’t quite tease, learning quickly how the warlord likes to be kissed (deep and hard), what drives him crazy (pulling his hair and pinching his nipples, using his tongue basically anywhere, letting him mark Claude with his teeth), and what it takes to successfully deep-throat him ( _ a lot _ , as it turns out, to Dimitri’s chagrin, but Claude doesn’t complain--though if Dimitri had the wherewithal to think in the middle of this heavenly blowjob, he’d assume that’s because complaining risks losing a customer).

There comes a point, though, when ‘taking his time’ isn’t enough anymore. Dimitri has his hands twisted in the sheets and his hips pressed down into the mattress to avoid accidentally hurting Claude, but the roaring need clawing at his insides demands  _ more _ , demands  _ now _ , and soon his incomprehensible, breathless encouragements turn into insistence, and then a deep, commanding rumble. “Don’t move,” he snarls, abruptly clenching one hand in Claude’s hair and holding him there, immobile. Claude glances up, breathing carefully through his nose as Dimitri’s hips twitch, and...winks, nodding as much as he dares but not fighting the warlord’s tight grip.

Dimitri finally lets his hips buck up into Claude’s mouth just once, harder and faster, and then he forces himself to wait for further confirmation even as a throaty moan escapes him. Claude pats his thigh with one hand and nods again, though now he looks like he’s concentrating a little harder when Dimitri’s thrusts resume with a steady rhythm. It’s the rhythm of Claude’s dance still jingling in his mind, and even now the bangles and bells chime in time with the jerking of his hips. And Goddess, he looks so good like this--on his hands and knees, mouth full and silent, a focused determination in his eyes as he takes Dimitri in with such...such  _ obedience _ .

The sight of him is what does it, more than anything. The warlord tosses his head back and cries out, wordless and wanton, clutching at Claude’s hair like a lifeline as he spasms and releases into the man’s throat. It’s only afterward, after his heaving breaths die down and his mind pieces itself back together, that his eye widens in dismay and he struggles to sit up, letting go of Claude’s curls with haste. “Oh...I’m so sorry, Claude, are you--?”

But the dancer apparently took the unannounced orgasm more or less in stride. He’s sitting back on his haunches, panting lightly and wiping the excess from his lips with the back of his hand--ah. He swallowed...all of it, apparently. “Don’t worry about me, Your Lordliness,” he rasps with a grin. “You looked like you were having such a good time, I couldn’t bear to interrupt.”

“I--yes, but…” Dimitri’s too wiped out to argue further, though, and he flops back down with a sigh, sweaty hair spread out beneath him on the pillow. “Thank you, Claude. I...suppose I needed that more than I realized. Ah, but what about you…?”

The other man crawls up Dimitri’s body to lie beside him, rubbing gentle circles over his chest with one hand. “No need. This is all about you.” Claude smiles. “How do you feel?”

“I feel wonderful, thanks to you.” Dimitri chuckles. “I must say, I never thought I would approve of one of Sylvain’s harebrained plans, but for once I am glad for his meddling.”

“Happy to be a good investment,” Claude says cheerfully. The words feel...wrong, somehow, to Dimitri. “Shall I leave you to your sleep?”

“No.” The response is immediate, surprising even the warlord himself just a bit. “Stay. And you...you are not an  _ investment _ , Claude. You are a person like any of us.” The dancer doesn’t reply right away. Dimitri turns his head to see Claude regarding him thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” says Claude, the smile returning to his face as though it never left. “You want me to stay the night?”

“Yes.” They lie there in comfortable quietude for a few minutes, until Dimitri says, “Tell me about yourself, Claude. I think I ought to know a little more about the man who shares my bed.”

“Me?” Claude plays with Dimitri’s hair idly. “There isn’t much to tell. I’m just another drifter trying to make ends meet and eke a little bit of enjoyment out of life while I can.”

Dimitri has trouble believing that Claude is ‘just’ anything. “Where are you from? And where did you learn to dance like--like that? You are quite impressive. Extraordinary, I would say.”

The dancer chuckles. “Well, I won’t deny that. ‘Ordinary’ has never suited me. But really, it’s just something I picked up on my travels and had a knack for.”

It takes a moment for the warlord to realize that Claude skipped over his first question, but he doesn’t pry. “I’m inclined to say that ‘knack’ does not begin to cover it.” The fingers running through his hair are soothing, making his eyes feel heavy. He closes them and shifts so that he can drape an arm over his bedmate and bury his face in that soft, wild nest of curls that smells so good. “Claude,” he murmurs after a while. “I want you to stay here with me.”

“Mm-hmm, so you said. I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

“No…” Dimitri hasn’t thought this through, really, but he doesn’t feel the need to either. Perhaps in the morning he’ll regret his recklessness, but somehow he doubts it. “Beyond tonight. On my payroll, just as the soldiers are.” Silence. Claude goes very still. “You need not decide right now,” Dimitri assures him. “Take a day or two to think it over. But...you fascinate me. I would very much like to get to know you better.”

Finally, a quiet response comes: “What exactly are you saying? You want me to be...your full-time companion?”

“Companion…” The warlord rolls the word around in his sleepy mind for a moment. “Yes, I like that. Companion. To dance for me and keep me company.”

“...that’s a generous offer, milord. I’ll consider it and let you know.”

Dimitri smiles and breathes in the scent of lavender and spices. For the moment, at least, he’s content. “Please do.”

* * *

“What do you mean, he’s still alive?”

“Hold your horses, Felix, let me finish.” Claude yawns and lies back on his cot. He didn’t get a wink of sleep last night in Lord Blaiddyd’s bed, despite the warmth and comfy blankets. A nap is downright imminent. “Sure, I could have taken him out right away and made off with whatever he had there in his bedroom. But he wants me to  _ stay. _ ”

“Uh, excuse me?” Hilda blinks at him. “Stay where? What do you mean, stay?”

“Stay there, with him. His very own full-time courtesan.” He turns his head to grin at them. “Why settle for a little loot when I could learn all his secrets and take him for  _ everything _ he has?”

“Don’t you think that’s overdoing it, Claude?” Hilda says, looking uncertain.

“Not to mention absurd, and unnecessarily dangerous,” Felix adds. “What secrets could a brute like that possibly have that are worth putting the whole job at risk, and all of us along with it?”

“Relax, I’ve got it all under control.” Claude tucks his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, smiling with a certain smug glee. “By this time next week, I’ll have him wrapped around my little finger. Just sit back and watch the master schemer at work, my friends.”

Hilda sighs. “If you say so...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Claude first heard that Lord Blaiddyd was looking for an exotic dancer to help him relax, he thought nothing of it beyond 'of course he is.' Warlords aren't shy about taking their pleasure from whoever catches their eye; the only thing strange about this was the offering of payment for it. It wasn't until Claude saw Dimitri in person, passing by in the marketplace, that he changed his mind. His pride wouldn't let him admit it, but really, it was a decision made out of sheer thirst. Gods, the man was breathtaking. And, Claude reasoned, if he was going to kill him anyway, why not enjoy himself a little first?
> 
> As it turns out, he enjoyed himself more than a little, and now he's returning to Blaiddyd's base to accept the offer of an indefinite position as his personal courtesan. His crew is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, so long as he delivers. And he intends to!...eventually. He's got to learn the warlord's secrets first. Claude might actually be able to make some strides toward something more than just enough financial stability to finally find somewhere where he feels safe. Maybe. And in the meantime, he gets all the access he wants to Dimitri's, uh...assets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of slavery.

Claude can't really blame his crew for their skepticism when he first announced that there would be a change of plans here in the settlement of Compendium. Originally, they were going to lure Lord Blaiddyd away from his people with some concocted fiction, capture him, ransom him back, and then kill him anyway once they had their hands on the money. They all know firsthand, one way or another, that all these warlords jostling for territory and bloodshed aren't interested in rebuilding anything or helping anyone. As far as Claude's concerned, his crew's thievery and killing are justified: they're just taking back what this hellhole of a continent took from them. Felix lost his brother and father to some other warlord's raid, a blatant power play. Hilda's brother _is_ one of those warlords, using 'protecting his borders' as an excuse to pillage and annex or destroy every adjacent territory smaller than his own; she was disgusted and left home. Annette's father abandoned his family to single-mindedly serve the Holy Nation's ruler, the Phoenix, leaving them to fend for themselves until a border tussle chased them out of their home and into the wasteland. Cyril's parents were killed in a skirmish between warlords and he was captured by the Holy Nation, destined for slavery in Rebirth if Claude hadn't intervened by killing the guards responsible for transporting that particular batch of prisoners to the capital. And as for Claude himself...

...well. The less said about his past, the better, in his opinion.

So when he first heard that Lord Blaiddyd was looking for an exotic dancer to help him relax, he thought nothing of it beyond 'of course he is.' Warlords aren't shy about taking their pleasure from whoever catches their eye; the only thing strange about this was the offering of payment for it. It wasn't until Claude _saw_ the man in person, passing by in the marketplace, that he changed his mind. His pride wouldn't let him admit it, but really, it was a decision made out of sheer thirst. Gods, the man was breathtaking. And, Claude reasoned, if he was going to kill him anyway, why not enjoy himself a little first?

As it turns out, he enjoyed himself more than a little, and now he's returning to Blaiddyd's base to accept the offer of an indefinite position as his personal courtesan. His crew put up with it, but Claude's aware it's only because of the significant social currency he's built up with them over the course of all their successful jobs. They're willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, so long as he delivers. And he intends to!...eventually. He's got to learn the warlord's secrets first, of course. This is a once-in-a-lifetime sort of opportunity. He's heard rumors that Blaiddyd used to be enslaved in the Holy Nation, which means he's got to have some juicy information about whoever kept him. Claude might actually be able to make some strides toward something more than just enough financial stability to finally find somewhere where he feels safe. Maybe. And in the meantime, he gets all the access he wants to Dimitri's, uh...assets.

"Claude." Dimitri greets him with clear surprise when the biggest of his guards--Dedue, was it?--escorts Claude to the warlord's study, adjacent to the bedroom with a nice, warm fireplace and as plush a secondhand couch as anyone in these parts could ask for. "I...must confess, I wasn't certain you would return. Particularly so soon."

Claude, dressed once again as the dancer from last night minus the veil and plus a pair of light sandals, shrugs. "Like I said, it's a generous offer. A steady wage and reliable shelter are nothing to sneeze at, these days." He smirks. "And last night wasn't exactly a chore." He's blessed with the sight of a faint blush creeping over Dimitri's face. Claude's starting to think he's made a mistake, because the thought _he's too cute to die_ crosses his mind briefly. But no, that's just his thirst talking again. Objectively, completing the job is the sensible thing to do--and he has no reason not to. Sure, this guy might be more polite than most, a little more cuddly behind closed doors, but he's still a warmongering tyrant. All warlords are.

"I am glad," Dimitri says. "I will have a room prepared for you right away. Ah...is that all you plan to bring with you?" He nods to the large backpack Claude carries, incongruous as it looks alongside his apparel.

"Yep, that's it." Claude pats the bag behind him. "This trusty pack has been with me for years and hasn't let me down yet. It's all I need." He tilts his head. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting my own room. You don't want me to stay in yours?"

"Oh...I didn't-- Is that what's usually done?"

"Generally, that's how clients prefer it. But I won't turn down a little privacy." Claude bows as best he can, carrying the somewhat heavy pack. "My thanks for your continued generosity, milord."

"I told you, it's just Dimitri, with you. And--please, let me take that." Dimitri comes over to coax the bag from Claude's back to sling it over one shoulder effortlessly, like it weighs nothing. Claude bites back a comment about wanting Dimitri to sling _him_ over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes...not that it would be out of place for the role he's playing to say so, but he doesn't want to come on too strong too fast and spook his mark early. (Especially since it's kind of true.)

The room provided to Claude is small but functional enough. It has one window (which is, fortunately, just big enough for Claude to fit through), a cot with a relatively comfortable mattress, a wash basin, and a fairly sizable wooden chest. The latter is where he keeps his wardrobe and accoutrements, which he and Hilda pooled some of their savings to procure early this morning in the outer market outside the settlement's walls. Silk and perfume and makeup are _expensive_ , but Claude sees it as an investment--if this job goes well, perhaps he can play the same kind of role again in the future. Hilda's taught him to do his own makeup without a mirror and to wash silk without ruining it. In the chest he also keeps a long bathrobe of thin satin and a few casual outfits, although even those are somewhat gauzy and revealing, or otherwise designed to catch Dimitri's eye. (Claude's pretty proud of how he looks in the skintight leather trousers, personally.) The persona he's adopted is a vain man, only too willing to put himself on display for his lord's benefit, so very little of what he brings is particularly practical for anything other than that goal.

Over the next fortnight or so, Claude learns that Dimitri's generosity doesn't seem to have much of a limit. He bemoans the lack of a mirror once in the warlord's presence, and the very next day Dimitri has his people bring in a vanity with a round mirror and a cushioned chair. The mirror is a bit cracked and the paint's peeling from the wood, but Claude can't help feeling genuinely touched by the gift, just a little. From that point on, he milks that largesse for all it's worth, dropping subtle comments here and there about this lovely scarf he saw in the marketplace or that particular blend of tea he's always wanted to try. Every time, Dimitri pulls through, if not always as quickly; Claude has no idea how he's even getting his hands on half this stuff.

Claude also, true to his word, takes full advantage of the fact that Dimitri's study is attached to the bedroom. He's read most of the warlord's files by now, his correspondences, his reports. He's learned that Dimitri fancies himself a savior of sorts, shedding blood not for his own gain but for the sake of those whose towns he liberates from imperial influence. He's learned that Dimitri didn't earn his freedom from his enslavement through service, as some do; he _escaped_ , killing a whole bunch of people on his way out. And, although he's yet to see the warlord in battle, he's learned that Dimitri is _feared_ pretty much everywhere within a 30 mile radius of Compendium. Rumors abound of the Beast Lord, who tears his enemies to pieces with his bare hands and can cow hardened soldiers with just a few words and a glance. Claude's not sure how many of those rumors he believes, but Dimitri _does_ have an impressive death glare and ungodly strength...is it weird, he thinks, that he finds those more sexy than scary? _That_ , he does not report back to his crew when he sneaks out late at night to check in with them or stops by while he's out and about in the afternoons. Dimitri never asks where he goes when he disappears for a few hours, so he never has to bother using the story he invents to explain it.

Those two weeks also reveal a few other things to Claude. For instance, Dimitri's absolutely insatiable desire for him--and his not-insignificant attraction to Dimitri, in turn. For another, how much _fun_ it is to traipse around the base in his skimpy clothes and watch the warlord's people lose their minds over how scandalous or inappropriate they think it is. He learns quickly who has no particular hangups about his presence here (like Sylvain), who feels that it's unbecoming of Dimitri to let his 'kept boy' wander around as he likes and flagrantly hang on his arm in public (like Ingrid), and who suspects him of foul play and taking advantage of Dimitri (like Dedue and Leonie). Claude's heard plenty of people complaining that he's taking up space and resources they could be using to house someone _useful,_ rather than a shameless, vapid leech. He's also, less entertainingly, heard people express their own desire for him and lament that Dimitri gets to 'have him all to himself.' More than once, the warlord steps in to viciously dissuade someone from implying that Claude's provocative clothes and jewels suit him far better than anything else would, or that once Dimitri tires of his 'plaything' they're hoping to take a turn with him. It surprises Claude at first, but considering the respect the warlord has shown him from the beginning, it makes sense.

And it's all a bit troubling, really. Because Claude's starting to catch himself legitimately enjoying Dimitri's company. He's starting to look forward to their afternoon teas, which Dimitri makes sure never to skip no matter how busy he is, and the thrill of dancing for someone so utterly spellbound by him. He knows he can't afford these feelings. Soon, this all needs to end so Claude and his people can get paid; a few of them are getting antsy already. He tells himself it's just his way of having a little fun with his job. The fact that he's never had sex so good in his life is just a bonus. So is falling asleep wrapped up in Dimitri's arms every night in a bed much more comfortable than his own. It's just business with some excellent perks.

Still, he can't deny secretly relishing times like this:

Dimitri emerges from his study in the early evening, looking like a desert cat prowling on the hunt. When he passes by Claude's open door, he peers in to find his companion choreographing a new dance, and smiles warmly. "I see you're hard at work." And hell if he isn't 100% sincere. "Take a break and join me for supper. I am famished."

"Just a little creative license with that dance you liked so much the other day," Claude says with a wicked grin. 'Liked' is a massive understatement; he's never seen Dimitri get worked up so fast that he literally couldn't wait until the dance ended to get his hands on Claude before. He doesn't bother to put on shoes before he sidles up to Dimitri; honestly, he's found that walking around the base barefoot is pretty comfy, but it also further encourages people to underestimate him, dismiss him as nothing but eye candy.

"Ah...well, I certainly look forward to seeing the fruits of your labor." Dimitri curls an arm around Claude's waist as they leave the room and head downstairs for the mess hall. The gesture is a new development in the past few days, much to Ingrid's chagrin whenever she sees them.

Which she does now, as they enter the mess hall to find her, Sylvain, and Dedue seated nearby. Dimitri takes his seat at the head of the table and, as usual, tries to get Claude to sit beside him there. And as usual, Claude declines, choosing instead to sit on Dimitri's lap. He wears a pleasant smile that never fades as he drapes himself over the warlord's shoulder, despite the suspicious looks it earns him from Dedue and Ingrid and the suggestive smirk from Sylvain. In the beginning, Claude was surprised when Dimitri went along gladly with his blatant licentious conduct no matter how bold he got in front of everyone else; he'd thought to embarrass the man, but for all that Dimitri sometimes embarrasses easily, this doesn't faze him. So Claude entertains himself by seeing how much he can get away with before someone else says something. Once Dimitri's filled his plate from the various dishes on the table, Claude takes it from him and begins to feed him by hand. To his credit, Dimitri just rolls with it, engaging in conversation with the others about the armory and recruitment without batting an eye in between bites.

After a little while, when the only reaction he gets is a few dirty looks, Claude ups the ante. He puts a slice of apple between his teeth and leans down to feed it to Dimitri _that_ way, and when the warlord moves to take it, Claude leans in to push the apple slice into his mouth and follow it with his tongue. Dimitri indulges him like a champ. "Mmm," he hums, pleased.

"...excuse me, we were having a conversation," Ingrid snaps.

"Oh, don't stop on my account." Claude pulls back to smile at her. She presses her lips together into a flat line so fiercely that Claude thinks she might hurt herself. He just barely manages not to laugh, instead turning back to Dimitri. "Shall I pour you a cup of tea, Your Grace?"

Dimitri doesn't seem to realize he's spoken for a second, and Claude considers it a victory that it's because his eye is fixed on his lips until he blinks himself out of it and nods. "Yes, please do."

Claude does as he's bid, deliberately swaying his hips in the loose white pants he wears as he walks away to fetch the tea. Glancing surreptitiously over while he pours it gives him the gratifying sight of Ingrid and Dedue huddled around the table and speaking to Dimitri in hushed tones, no doubt trying to convince him that Claude's more trouble than he's worth, while Sylvain rolls his eyes. If they succeed, Claude thinks, Dimitri's the sort of person who would at least give him a day or two to get his affairs in order, and that's all Claude would need to finish the job properly, so the prospect shouldn't annoy him...it does, though, a bit. He takes his time so he can observe them a little more before returning with Dimitri's tea. The table goes predictably silent as he retakes his perch. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"...we were about to begin discussing sensitive matters," says Dedue, calm as always but with a slight edge of warning. "I believe it would be best if you were to take your leave."

Claude makes a point of turning to look to Dimitri for confirmation. Dimitri sighs. "Since there is such business to attend to, I suppose you ought to await me in my quarters."

"Yes, milord," Claude murmurs, pitching it low, almost sultry. He steals one more kiss and reaches down to squeeze Dimitri's backside briefly with a furtive hand before he rises and gives the table a bow. "Until next time."

He waits only long enough to be out of earshot in the stairwell before he laughs quietly to himself. Hilda will get a kick out of hearing about this.

* * *

A few days later, Claude has his first entire day off. Dimitri offered a week ago, but at the time Claude felt it was too early to give his inner circle a chance to sour him on his decision. Now it's clear to him that Dimitri doesn't care what they have to say about it--he's in fact gone so far as to tell Claude to let him know if anyone gives him any trouble. He's not sure quite how to feel about that. On the one hand, it's only logical to protect an investment, but Dimitri was the one who seemed disgruntled to hear him call himself an investment. So if it isn't that, then he's defending Claude as a person, and Claude's uneasy about that, too. For one thing, he's never needed anyone's protection, and never intended to either. He's been able to take care of himself since he was young--since before the Holy Nation's forces razed his home city to the ground, even. He struck out on his own at the age of fifteen and has been wholly self-sufficient since. For another, the more Dimitri acts like he _cares_ , the harder it is to imagine stabbing him in the back. Or anywhere, really. Still...it feels good to have someone stand up for him, for once. He tries not to let himself feel grateful, or that he owes Dimitri something beyond what he's paid for.

Despite having the day off, Claude agrees to join Dimitri for breakfast--who in their right mind would pass up Dedue's cooking?--and the sandstorms have died down for now, giving them a rare opportunity to eat outdoors under the awning that extends out from the greenhouse. It's the first time Claude's been out on this side of the base, since it's mostly residential for the guards and their families (for those who still _have_ families). It's also the first time he's realized there are children here.

Not just one or two, either, and not just the children of Dimitri's staff. When a group of about a dozen kids crowds outside to play some kind of game with a makeshift ball, Claude asks about them, and learns that Dimitri's been taking in orphans. _Orphans_. Those whose parents died in the warlord's skirmishes, from _both_ sides; those whose families were sold into slavery or executed by the Phoenix; those who were just unfortunate enough to have no one, for whatever reason. Claude silently curses the gods for making this the hardest job he's ever taken in his life.

Dimitri doesn't take care of the children himself, of course--a woman named Mercedes is their caretaker, and despite certainly knowing who Claude is (everyone does, Dimitri isn't shy about it), she's just as polite and pleasant to him as to anyone else. Refreshing. But it's what happens after she walks away from their table that really gets to him.

A little girl who can't be more than seven or eight years old approaches Dimitri quietly and tugs on his sleeve. "Yes?" he says, turning to face her. "Ah, you must be...Liza, was it? You arrived yesterday." She nods. "What is it?"

"Miss Mercedes said to ask you about what Compendium is for."

"Ah, of course. Would you like to sit up here?" Dimitri indicates his lap, and Claude goes still, as if moving or making noise would make this weirdly adorable moment vanish. The little girl thinks about it, looks at Claude, looks back at Dimitri, and then nods and takes the initiative to climb into Dimitri's lap before he even makes a move to lift her. "Very good. Now, you have heard of slavery, yes?"

Claude listens as Dimitri explains the horrors of slavery to this girl in soft but matter-of-fact tones. He sugarcoats nothing, but doesn't dwell too long on upsetting details. Then he explains that Compendium is a place where no slavers are allowed, and where Dimitri is raising both an army and a community that will one day see to it that no one is ever enslaved again. Claude keeps his expression neutral, but the more he listens, the more the gears in his mind turn. This sounds much too good to be true. He'll need to dig up more information, talk to someone who isn't part of Compendium to get a sense for how it really operates, track its army's exploits and see what it's been doing with all these resources. But...

Even if breaking up slave rings and offering a safe haven to former slaves and orphans is only part of what Dimitri's doing, isn't that enough to think twice about killing him?

_Shit._


End file.
